


Eve

by DenseHumboldt



Category: Captain Marvel (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Author Is Not Religious, F/M, Fallen Angels, Historical Inaccuracy, Inaccurate Catholicism, Post-World War I, Prompt Fic, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-05 22:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21216260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenseHumboldt/pseuds/DenseHumboldt
Summary: Father Rogg must confront the Divine after he finds an Angel





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eosdawns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eosdawns/gifts).

> Prompt from eosdawns  
Fallen Angel AU  
Not sure if this is what you had in mind but this is what you get!!
> 
> I am not religious and this is a theological mess. Sorry Christians!
> 
> 💙💜💚❤DH

She was naked. Her skin was nearly white against the deep green cemetery grass. Father Rogg had always found it ironic that the greenest grass was in the cemetery. It warped the meaning of the old saying. 

The woman was on her stomach, her body curled and glowing like the moon. He stood for a moment looking at her, as he collected himself. Rashness only benefited the devil. He decided that her skin exposed to the cold grey morning air was the first priority. He walked calmly away and opened the rectory side door. Everyone was still abed. He slipped into his small bedroom and took the spare blanket from the chest. It was warm yellow wool. The colour of sunshine. Almost like her blonde hair he thought, running a hand over it once he had it folded over his arm.

She hadn't moved in the time he had been gone but something told him she was still alive. He draped the blanket over her; he held his arms wide and whipped it in the air so it floated down flat. Spread out over her she became only a vague shape. No longer a woman. No longer so beautiful she drew his eye. No longer made of starlight.

He stepped away from her, his book tucked under his arm, and crossed the small distance to the stone bench. This had been his original destination. He sat there beneath the tree, around him the stones of his flock. Parishioners long dead or newly buried, the care of their souls passed to him when he arrived to this church. He liked to sit among them in the mornings in quiet contemplation of his book and of their lives. He felt on occasion the pang of guilt that he did not miss or mourn any of them. They passed through him as a cold wind did. He felt them in the moment but they were forgotten at night in front of his fire.

His eyes kept flicking to the shape on the lawn. He tried to remember if curiousity was a sin. He remembered discussing it in seminary but he did not remember the conclusion. It certainly wasn't one of the deadly ones. And God encourage reflection and reflection was by its nature curiousity of the self.

Except, he paused his eyes flicking to her again. She was naked. And young. And beautiful and Lust was certainly one of the deadly ones. Not to say he felt lust for her. It was that the idea of being the one to wake her felt easily misinterpreted.

He placed his finger on the page and closed his book around it. It pinched slightly but it made him feel he had secured his place. He let his eyes drift half closed. His back straight and his face serene he would be the picture of pious contemplation. Eve, he argued, had been naked in the garden. There was nothing shameful in the possessing of a body. The shame came from the understanding that the gaze of the impious was lustful.

His headached. She was a child of God. He was a man of the cloth. It was a greater sin not to help her immediately.

When he opened his eyes she was looking at him. She had raised herself up on one arm and was looking about groggily. The blanket, thank the heavens, had fallen in place over her so that she was covered. Her eyes found his. They were grey. Piercing and cold. Almost white. Inhuman was his first thought but he shook it off. What if the poor girl was blind?

Except, she was looking at him. He stood abruptly and put his book aside. His finger sliding from the spine so he lost his place.

He walked over to her. She startled a little. She moved so the blanket slipped down one shoulder. She looked at it perplexed, rolling beneath the wool so she sat on her behind, her back facing him. He could see each notch of her spine and the small dip at the cleft of her bottom. She lifted the blanket and peaked down. She seemed more confused than embarrassed at what she found.

"Are you injured, my child?" He asked kneeling beside her. She turned to him. She tilted her head at an unusual angle. The effect combined with her eyes was that of a bird of prey. She rolled her shoulders as if she expected to have wings.

He waited for her answer but she merely staggered to her feet. She stood unsteadily and the blanket fluttered to the ground. He covered his eyes and pulled away from her. She began to stride on jerky legs, towards the main road. He collected himself and the blanket. He strode after her. He spread the blanket out and wrapped in around her from behind. She froze and looked up him. Her eyes were uncertain but not alarmed. She held the blanket closed in front of her as if she sensed his distress at wrapping her in his arms and having her pressed against him.

He guided her shoulders so she would look at him.

"Where did you come from?" He asked her. He bent forward so he could look into her eyes, smell her skin. Was she glassy-eyed? Had she drunk too much? Her eyes were clearer than any he had seen. As if she could see to the heart of him. She smelled of early morning air. Not just any air. Exactly the scent of his childhood, when they scrubbed the land after harvest and his mother would get up early and sing hymns as she worked. When the air was smoky and cold, like the light this morning, and God felt closer than he did in church.

He let go of her and stepped back. What a pair they made?

Her eyes turned towards the sky and then looked at him again. She gripped the blanket and jabbed her finger upwards. He mimicked her, the question in his eyes and his mouth making the word 'up' silently.

Father Rogg glanced around. He should get her inside.

He led her to the rectory and brought her into the side door. He met Sister Minerva in the hall. She was wrapped in an old wool coat. Her cheeks were pink. She was adjusting her wimple and wasn't looking at them yet.

"Father, it is so cold out I am nearly blue," she commented. He froze. His eyes darted to the side room and he considered pushing the girl into the parlor to wait for him. Except a Sister would be better.

"Don't be very surprised, Sister. We have a visitor."

Sister Minerva turned and blinked back her shock. She looked from the girl to him.

"Mercy, what is this?" She asked. She sounded like she wanted to roll her eyes. Were naked girls common finds on the church lawn?

"You will have to ask her. I have been unsuccessful," Father Rogg coughed. "I would appreciate it if you could dress her."

The girl looked at him in silent confusion as he shoved her brusquely to Minerva. The Sister moved her mouth like a carp that had swallowed stones. She composed herself as she looked into the girl's unusual eyes.

"The charity hamper should have something," Father Rogg supplied. Sister Minerva looked back at him nodding. 

"Of course. Your breakfast will be late," she added as an after thought.

"I will prepare it myself. Bring her to the kitchen when she is dressed."

Father Rogg never felt comfortable with the sisters sending someone every morning to cook for him. It made him feel lazy. And yet they insisted. As he entered the low ceiling rectory kitchen he felt peace descend. He put on the kettle. He opened cupboards realizing he was woefully unfamiliar with the kitchen.

He had managed toast and tea when there was a cough at the door. Sister Minerva guided the girl in. She did it directly with no softness. He could tell by the look in her eyes dressing the girl had been an ordeal.

"Any luck on a name?" He asked spreading jam over his toast. The strawberries came from the rectory garden, the seeds moved like stars in a blood red cloud. Minerva sighed.

"She could be a saint's trial," Minerva muttered. She leaned on the door jamb and watched the girl take hesitant steps into the white plaster kitchen.

"I shall reccomend you at the next meeting," Father Rogg smiled at her. He slid a plate of toast to the girl across the scarred wood island. She looked down at it with raised brows. "So no name?"

"How good a look did you get at her?" Minerva asked. He coughed.

"I didn't."

"She has a mark down one side," Minerva took the pad from beside the telephone. She wrote four falling letters down the page and handed it to him. He took the paper as he bit into his toast. He lifted his slice jauntily in hopes the girl would mimic him. He wondered if he should have made toast for Minerva.

"V E R S," he read. He looked at the girl. "Vers?"

The girl stopped staring at the toast and looked up at him. He found himself staring at her. She had a sundress on. White with pink rosebuds. There was a blue ribbon at the neck.

"Is that your name?" He repeated.

She took a massive bite of toast. She started to cough as she chewed. He came around the counter as Minerva watched the girl. He handed her his tea as he thumped her back. She held his mug uselessly. She made a croaking sound as she swallowed dryly. She looked up at him with wide eyes. She had jam at the corner of her mouth. He reached up and rubbed his thumb where the jam clung. She looked at his thumb as he pulled away. She bent forward and licked the jam. Father Rogg forgot how to breathe. Behind him Minerva groaned.

"I have other duties, Father," she reminded him coldly. He blinked and looked at her.

"Yes, of course Sister. Do not let me keep you," he stepped away from Vers and the smell of strawberries. "We shall get to the bottom of it together."

"Don't tax yourself, Father. The police will help."

Father Rogg nodded but he found he did not want to call the police. Minerva turned on her heel and walked towards the church door. Her sensible grey boots clicking on the hardwood. Vers watched her go, putting down his mug.

"I don't think she likes me," she observed with a smile before biting into her toast again. Father Rogg blinked stupidly at her.

"You can speak," he observed redundantly. Of course she could. It should not seem like such a miracle.

"Apparently," the girl nodded munching on her toast. She looked at the glistening galaxy of seeds. "What is this?"

"Toast. I thought you might be hungry," he felt weak at the sound of her voice. So real but so beyond. Like something he shouldn't be able to hear.

"I like it but not the part that sticks."

"That part is the toast."

"Oh and what is the good part?"

"The jam?"

She nodded. She saw the small pot of jam on the counter and reached for it. She looked at it for a moment before sticking her finger in and scooping it away from the sides. She stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked. Her lips were sugary and red.

"You can just do it this way," she said triumphantly tilting the jar towards him as if she had discovered a secret.

"You can," he agreed with a tight throat. Somehow her ability to speak left him with more questions than answers. She offered the jar to him. He did not know if it was shock or politeness but he found himself dipping his finger in the jam. She smiled at him as he licked it away. Proud of herself.

"Where are we?" She asked eating more jam.

"St. Agatha's," he answered. She nodded. "Is that where you meant to come?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. Her eyes moving over the kitchen with open curiousity. "But I am here."

"Why are you here?" He asked. His chest was tight. That was the question wasn't it?

"I come with a message," she said her voice deep and her lips pink. Father Rogg felt fear as her eyes seemed to light from with in.

"And what is the message?" He swallowed.

Vers looked back into her jam thoughtfully, "I don't remember."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Muse had a nosebleed in church on Sunday so despite swearing off AO3 for NaNoWriMo I am back with a new chapter.
> 
> James 1:13-1:17
> 
> I still know nothing about church  
❤💚💜💙DH

God created Eve to be the companion to Adam. Adam who was born from dust had his wife crafted from a rib. In this way, men and women were fundamentally different. He thought of where Minerva had indicated Vers' name was found. Down her side. Over her ribs. Father Rogg followed Vers through the narrow hallways of the rectory and listened to the house stir above him. There were four of them in the house; Father Rogg who was the most senior, then Korath and Bron. Finally, Atlas was fresh from seminary. They looked after the needs of the congregation together and to Father Rogg's relief he only needed to perform Mass on Wednesdays and Sundays.

Today was not Sunday.

"Who gave you the message?" Father Rogg asked her. The sun was brighter now as it came through the windows. It lit her dress so that it could almost be transparent. He would have to find her something else to wear.

She turned and smiled widely at him. She was made of golden light he thought. His ribs ached. They always ached early in the morning. And at night. A constant reminder of life when all around him there had been death.

"Maybe you can tell me," was all she answered.

"You have no memories before you woke up on our lawn?" He asked her again. He knew it should be impossible. She must have some sense. Women did not spring from the earth.

"None at all. What can I call you?" She stopped so he nearly collided with her. He stepped a half pace back.

"Father," he answered her. He clarified in case she met the others, "Father Rogg."

"Can I stay until I remember the message?" She asked as he stopped them outside the study door. He opened it and showed her in. The windows faced East so the morning it was always dim inside. That was why he read on the lawn until the snow came. She immediately walked around the room. She was curious and awake.

"It would not be prudent," he said in a measured voice. He had brought her to this room because this was where the other telephone was not because they were less likely to be disturbed here than the kitchen.

"Why not?" She asked a little forlornly turning away from the books she had been running her fingers up and down their spines.

"Only men live in the rectory and you are a woman," he tried to say it without heat creeping up his neck. She would be safe here from everything but gossip.

"Oh," her mouth made a round pink shape. Her eyes looked up at him with such fascination. She took a step towards him with her hand extended. Her eyes swept down as she neared him. "Are we different?"

"Yes," he said hovering on the edge of stepping away from her. It was weakness that kept his feet where they were. She reached him and spread her hands across his chest. He wished for the layers of his cassock in that moment.

"But you are human?"

"Yes," he answered feeling barely human.

"And I am human?"

"I believe so," he said softly. She was so close and she still smelled of smoke and jam. Her fingers light on his chest. She looked at them and not at him. If she had looked at him she would have seen how his lips parted softly and his eyes looked at her with something other than charity. She lifted her other hand and pressed it to her chest in the same place. His eyes followed it to the scooping neck where her fingers found flesh. She looked down with eyes wide.

"But different," she repeated. He wondered if she understood the temptation of gently curving flesh. She stepped away from him nodding with certainty. His heart was still choking along. "That must be part of the message."

"What?" He asked as she walked back to the books. Her eyes were drawn to the large bible laid open on a stand. She ran her hands over the thin vellum pages. He knew now exactly what those pages felt. The sensation of her touch, of her focus. 

"I could have any body. The form they chose must be part of the message," she nodded pleased with her own reasoning. "Who is James?"

"What?" Father Rogg had become lost in the smallness of the room. He tried to recall what he had been writing on before this morning. "The Epistle of James."

"That answers my question," she crooked a wicked grin at him. 

"I thought he would be a friend of yours," Father Rogg could not help smiling. "Since you both bring messages."

Vers sniffed her eyes scanning the page, "my message was shorter."

"And yet you cannot remember it." He was being so stupid. He needed to call the police. He needed to stop thinking of the way when she walked or stood impatiently on her toes he could see the bare arches of her feet. Painted black in places by dirt. He thought of John 13:1.

And by extension humility and kindness. And supplication.

He forgot about telephoning the police.

"Wait here," he murmured to her. She caught the change in his voice and marked it with a tilt of her head. Her eyes still unsettled him but he was growing used to them. It seemed they no longer burned the way they had and now only smouldered beneath her blonde lashes.

He returned with a cloth and basin. Also shoes from the charity hamper. 

"Sit," he pointed at the squishy leather chair behind his desk. Vers walked to it hesitantly and lowered herself down. She tensed a little as it swiveled. Then she smiled and shimmied intentionally.

Father Rogg came around the desk and knelt at her feet. He placed the basin in the floor with a dull cymbal sound. The shoes next to it. He thought fleetingly he should offer her the cloth and allow her to take care of it herself but she was looking down at him with such earnest curiousity he felt her permission.

She thought her body was part of the message.

He opened his hands and she lifted one small foot towards him. He caught it by the heel, cupping it in his warm palm. He had done this before, but only symbolically. The completion of a ritual. This was the ritual brought to life. A necessity because her feet were dirty but something more. A desire to express kindness to her that he felt he had no pure untouched words for. A salve to the rejection of not allowing her to stay.

He dipped one end of the cloth in the water and drew it from the back of her heel towards her toes. He followed in an S motion the natural curve of her foot. She made a surprised sound, a high girlish breath, and her toes flexed. He felt old. She felt so new. The cloth was smudged with grey dirt as he wet the corner again. He made small circles over the ball of her foot before trailing it beneath the curl of her toes. She breathed in sharply and rolled her shoulders. He could not look at her as he dried her foot with the other end of the cloth. He slid the shoe on her foot and placed it beside the basin.

"What is that sensation?" She asked as she offered him her other foot. "The one that starts where you touch but ends higher."

As if to clarify she squeezed her knees together.

"You're ticklish," he answered swallowing the desire to look up at her. Her breath hitched again as little bits of grit swirled in the water. 

"Are you ticklish?" She asked as he put on the other shoe and slid the basin beneath the desk.

"No," he answered standing up. She looked so small sitting in his chair.

She looked at him as if she wanted to test the theory but she restrained herself. She lifted her feet and stared at her shoes.

"Do they fit alright?" He asked.

"I suppose this is how they are meant to fit," she said standing up as well. They were crowded together behind the desk when there was a knock at the door. The knocker opened without waiting for a response. Brother Bron came through the door.

He stooped to fit. Father Rogg often thought Bron felt so at home on the pulpit because it was the only place where he didn't have to duck.

They all froze as his eyes took in the girl in the rectory's study. Father Rogg walked away from her, around the front of the desk.

"We have a guest, Bron," he said with cheer he didn't feel. Bron's eyes scanned her. Even in the dim morning light it was obvious she was hastily and improperly dressed.

"Hello," Vers said nodding her head. Bron nodded at her. His hand lifted to stroke his beard. It was a little wild and unkempt for a priest but he combed it before the congregation saw him.

"What brings you here?" Father Rogg asked interrupting Bron's contemplation of the girl and her open interest in him. It was because Bron never came to the study without a reason, he argued and not because he was suddenly worried Vers' message was not for him. Bron turned to look at him as if he had forgotten he was there.

"I am looking for a text."

Father Rogg swept his hand to encompass the whole room, "my study is always open to you."

Bron nodded and walked to the shelf.

"What is it you are preparing?" Father Rogg asked to alleviate the silence that fell.

"I want to discuss love at our next service," Bron said softly as he ran his finger along the spines of the books. More determinedly than Vers had. Father Rogg leaned against the desk, watching Bron. It would be no doubt a beautiful service. He was a man of great feeling and poetry. Father Rogg wished be could look forward to it with a heart unburdened by jealousy.

"Love?" Father Rogg repeated.

"Yes," Bron smiled to himself as he selected a tome. "It is the best time of year for it. We have had so many marriages in the summer and so many get betrothed in the winter. What better time to offer guidance?"

"Not many would consider us experts," Father Rogg cautioned gently. He did not want to discourage Bron. Bron merely put his hand on the Father's shoulder. His eyes always wise in a young face.

"From the pulpit we observe all kinds of love. One does not need to fly to know the migration patterns of birds. To know when they leave and when they return."

"Is that your opening line? Were you prepared for my question?"

"Yes," Bron nodded with sparkling eyes. He inclined his head to Vers. "I am sorry my child, that I cannot stay."

Vers smiled sweetly as he left and waited for the door to close.

"He made you sad," she observed when they were alone.

"It is no matter," he shook her off. They should leave the study now Bron knew she was there. "Would you like to see the rest of St. Agatha's?"

Vers came around the desk. She shuffled her feet, fascinated by her shoes.

"I would."

Father Rogg had the strangest urge to take her hand so he picked up his small bible instead. In the face of even innocent temptation a man of the cloth kept his hands full.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope My Muse appreciates how strange my google history has gotten for her sake 💙
> 
> Still not christian  
Still cant spell  
❤💚💜💙DH

St. Agatha's was impressive for what it was; a church serving a small village. Father Rogg had been champlain for a division of the British Army briefly stationed in Italy. He had seen there, in a country devastated by the Great War, churches that defied description. St. Agatha's with its wood beams and plain plaster walls lacked the grandeur of old cathedrals. Vers walked the nave with her head tilted back. He was glad he had found her shoes. The slate would be cold on her feet and he didn't trust her to stay on the worn red runner. It was the perfect time of day to view the cathedral, the sun was hitting the massive rose window so it glowed like a jewel. Father Rogg often thought it was a pity that Mass was not scheduled by the position of the sun.

She drifted among the pews and touched the back of each one. He could smell this morning, more clearly than ever, the lemon oil they used to keep the dark wood glossy. The clerestory lit the Nave sufficiently during the day but for evening service the place would be illuminated with candles and warm glowing bulbs. He wanted her to see it that way too, he realized.

"What is this place for?" Vers asked entering the central aisle again.

"We serve our congregation. We perform Mass and ceremonies."

"Can I see?" She walked up to the transept. She did not kneel or bless herself. Father Rogg lay his bible on the front pew. He followed her and his eyes instinctively swept upwards to the cross. He moved his hand with practice. It was second nature to look heavenward and acknowledge the altar. She stepped up onto the dais as one might explore a new place open to the searcher without trespass. He followed her anxiously. He wanted to share this with her and yet he was wary as she approached the altar.

"What is this for?" She asked leaning her hands onto it. Father Rogg flinched.

"It is our altar. It represents our saviour's presence in our ceremony. We all look to him and he looks back to us. It is how we honour his sacrifice and his nourishment of our souls."

"You eat him?" Vers repeated with shock turning to sit on the altar. Father Rogg moved quickly to catch her by the waist before she could rest against the marble. He pulled her away, taking one step backward then another. She did not resist him at all. She let him pull her as if she were a little boat roped to him.

"It's not eating, exactly," he explained softly as he pulled her away. She was not intending to be disrespectful. "And we do not sit on his table."

"There are no chairs," she answered him. Not in defiance, her face was soft with a desire to understand.

Without pausing he took one last step off the dais, his hands still about her. He half lifted, half pulled her down. He turned her when she was in front of him so her back almost touched his chest. His hands rested on her shoulders and she naturally tilted her head to look up at the stained glass.

"We are not meant to sit at his table. We observe his glory from here. And we let the awe of his sacrifice fill us. We show respect."

He lifted her hand and held it at the base of her sternum, her attention rapt. He took her other hand so she was encircled in his arms. She did not flinch or shy away. He felt radiating from her skin trust and a desire to understand. His fingers slid along hers so he held them straight. Her hand was pliant and held the shape he coaxed it into. He moved her through the sign of the cross in a smooth practiced motion; forehead, sternum, shoulder to shoulder. It felt like he was blessing both of them at once. He murmured the words in her ear unwilling to disrupt the softness of the moment.

"Is that what you feel when you stand here, Father? Awe?" Sometimes her voice had a quality that shook him to his core. As if she became an instrument for a larger purpose and that ineffable nature echoed in the chambers of her body.

He released her hands and stepped slightly away from her. Enough so he could inhale without his chest brushing her and the tulip skirt of her rosebud dress didn't catch on the gabardine of his trousers. Enough that not even the Lord could find fault.

"Of course," he said gruffly. Behind him he heard the splitting wood sound of an old door opening. It rang in the vaulted ceiling. He took her shoulders as he felt the rigteousness in Korath's steps. He whispered hard in her ear. "When they ask what you seek say 'sanctuary'."

She turned to him with a surprised look in her eyes. He was already turning to meet his brothers. He gave her a significant look. "Wait here and when the time comes say it."

Father Rogg walked down the centre aisle to meet Korath. Behind him trailed Bron and Atlas.

"I am glad you are all here to meet our guest," he said with open hands and a small smile. The picture of welcoming piety. Korath slowed his steps, his outrage met by Father Rogg's calm.

"Why is she here?" Korath asked.

"She was found on the lawn this morning. She is disoriented. It is our duty to shelter her in her time of need."

"If she is ill maybe a hospital would suit her better," Bron said calmly. Father Rogg had a moment when he looked into the eyes staring back at him and it felt like a mutiny.

"An illness of spirit should be healed here. There is no need to rush her from our doors within the hour," it sounded weak to even his ears but he kept his tone measured.

"Has she expressed interest in staying?" Bron looked at Vers over Father Rogg's shoulder. Like Eurydice, he resisted the urge to look at her should she disappear. Korath turned to look at Bron, the fire he normally reserved for his services burned in his eyes.

"She cannot stay here. It is out of the question." He turned back to look at Father Rogg, over his shoulder Atlas shifted from foot to foot. He was thrumming with intrigue. Perhaps the cause was not as hopeless as it seemed. "If she wishes to live among us send her to the sisters and be rid of her."

"More like feed her to Sister Minerva," Atlas muttered with a small smile.

"Show respect," Korath curled his lip. "We cannot have a woman among us."

"Why not?" Father Rogg raised his eyebrows innocently even though he had protested the same thing not an hour before.

"Temptation-"

"Reflects only our own evil desires," Father Rogg interrupted him. "Who are you accusing of harbouring impious thoughts? Who is she not safe from? Who would not be safe from her even if it was the Devil that sent her?"

Korath moved his mouth a little like an offended carp. His eyes, light coloured and part of his intimidation as a proselytizer, roved between his brothers.

"Perhaps Korath, we should ask the child directly what it is she needs?" Bron rested a soothing hand on his shoulder.

Korath scoffed, "Sister Minerva says she is mute and a trial."

"You forget your lessons in charity," Bron scolded lightly.

"Vers," Father Rogg called to the woman who had been waiting patiently, her face turned towards the cross. He did not need to look to her to know she had turned and was walking towards them. He could see it in each of his brothers' face. Her eyes more compelling than Korath's, the way she had of walking like her feet barely needed to touch the ground, and how all the light in the room seemed drawn to her.

She reached them and stood a little outside their circle. Father Rogg conceded the floor to his brothers. Korath for all his blustering was silent and Atlas bit his cheek to stop himself smiling. It was left Bron to speak.

"My child, what is it you seek here?"

Vers looked to Father Rogg for the briefest of seconds before she addressed them all.

"Sanctuary."

* * *

The word once invoked could not be denied. Their oldest mission beyond salvation was to provide sanctuary for those that asked it. So with one word Vers was to stay among them or at the very least inside the church. For as Korath rightly argued, it was the cathedral that was given the power of sanctuary and not the rectory. He argued that even stepping beyond the doors was to forfeit her request.

Father Rogg conceded for the moment as he was certain that once Korath grew used to the idea he would not fight against Vers the way he had upon her arrival.

Father Rogg made her a small bed up off the North transept in a cloistered room. She had a small cot and a light. She looked around it with fascination.

"You will be alright here?" He asked leaning on the door jamb. The church at night had an eeriness of a purpose on pause.

"It is only until I remember the message," she smiled at him. He didn't know how long that would be but he hoped long enough she could see the church at Mass and experience the glory he tried to impart on her.

He left her and returned to chamber for the night. His room was sparse and plain, as befit his station and his vows. He only needed to sleep there, his waking hours belonged to the service of his congregation.

At night, he belonged to the past. To re-living the Battle of Ypres. To the fields in Belgium where Hell was cold not hot and the ground churned around your feet trying to bury you alive. He had arrived on the front without arms, only his bible, his services as chaplain volunteered by a foolish man torn between delusions of heroism and delusions of serving God.

The battle had been over for more than twenty years, the war itself for twenty. He had seen many more battles before armistice had come, and still this first foray haunted him at night.

It was when he had begun to doubt God's mercy and power on Earth. Wondering if God was so great then why did the decisions of powerful men outweigh and bury his teachings in molten lead?

Father Rogg woke in a sweat, kicking away the dying man who gripped his leg until he became no more than the wool and cotton of the bed linens.

His chest ached and his room felt too small. His ribs burned as they had when the bullet first lodged there. Without thinking he left his room to go to the Cathedral. He walked barefoot down the unlit rectory hall and slipped into a side door. He entered from the narthex. The place was black except two candles on the altar that burned all night. They called to him as if he was a moth in a crypt. He walked down the aisle, the vaulted ceilings obscured by darkness and the marble painted gold by the candle light.

He moved his hand in a practiced motion, even though he was numb to it now. He knelt in front of the dais and leaned his body back so he could see the cross and the dull blood red colour of the glinting window. His sweat was cooling. It was cold in the apse without the sun. He barely felt it as he prayed. He prayed that soon the doubt would end and if not the doubt the haunting of his nights. All he desired was an answer to why he was alive and so many were dead.

A blanket, warm from another body, draped over his shoulders. He looked up and he could no longer see the cross. Only her. The candlelight made her skin golden. She wore a large men's pajama shirt, pale blue stripes bunching at her elbows. Her legs were bare and he could almost name his feelings for her 'desire'.

"You are in pain," she said softly.

"No," he denied shaking his head. He tried to stand but she knelt in front of him. He sagged. "No, I am just alive. I am constantly surprised by it."

"Where does it hurt?" She asked. His hand went to his ribs and her eyes followed.

"Nowhere," he protested.

She reached for the buttons of his pajamas. He tried to still her hand but she was so hot to the touch he had to let her go. She opened his shirt buttons one by one, exposing his naked chest to the altar. He should feel shame but all he felt was week.

"Is it here?" She asked leaning forward and reaching to his right side where the wound had left a missing chunk of flesh, scarred one thousand times over. Her hot fingers felt the shape of the divet and he hissed. His skin prickled from where she touched. Her other hand pressed over his sternum, where Father Rogg often dreamed the soul resided. "Or is it here?"

He hung his head and drew in breath as he thought she would burn him alive. Had the Devil learned his ilk were weak to kindness? Or was this what forgiveness felt like?

"Is Vers really your name?" His voice rumbled low and nearly stuck in his dry throat.

"Is yours Father?" She asked her brow arching.

"It is Yon," he whispered as her hand on his chest smoothed across him to join the one at his side. He could not feel the pain over her heat.

"There is no wound here, Yon," she whispered.

He nodded dully, scared to look at her. She kept holding it as if keeping invisible blood inside his body. The same blood he saw on his hands. She moved one arm around his neck so she held him in an awkward half circle embrace. His head lay on her shoulder and his nose was settled in her neck. He could smell the cold morning air and as she stroked his hair making no sound he thought he could hear his mother singing as she worked.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ephesians 5:5

The only way Father Rogg could see her was by going into the Cathedral. This was not as easy as it seemed. He had structured his duties away from being inside, something he had been unconscious of until he wanted a reason to go that wasn't transparently to see her.

He had not seen her yet that day even though it was nearly lunch. Once he returned to the rectory the night before, he had stayed there. He had gone to sleep and been mercifully without dreams except for the chasing of a golden light through the woods around his childhood home. A soothing dream he had had since childhood but not in the time since Belgium.

Minerva had come in the morning and made their breakfast. Father Rogg had planned on taking the tray to Vers but Atlas had taken it up immediately. A duty befitting a junior priest. Father Rogg had other things to concern himself as Wednesday Mass was only a day away.

So Father Rogg found himself holed up in his study, praying for focus. His half prepared sermon on temptation no longer resonated as it once had. He thought of Bron's easy poetry and his words felt like lead in comparison.

As he puzzled he heard laughter beneath his window. He glanced out, the bible in his hands open to a page he had read over and over but could make no sense of. Vers was in the garden with Atlas. They had given her trousers and an over large sweater from the charity bin, so from the window it looked like a small ruffian was walking between the vegetables with the priest.

Father Rogg opened his window letting in the fall air. Atlas looked up and smiled at him. He walked them closer to the window.

"How goes your work, Father?" Atlas called up to the window. Vers was on his arm, curled against the chill that wafted through her sweater.

"You're outside," Yon observed leaning out the window to speak to them. Atlas smiled down at her.

"Korath is tending to the ill in the village."

Father Rogg nodded, "a duty that doesn't usually suit his temper."

"I encouraged him as his absence would benefit his sense of charity and compassion."

"And aid our guest?" Yon Rogg added. Atlas smiled at Vers again. She looked happily up at the window, the sun bright in her hair. Father Rogg felt an uncomfortable tightness in his chest at the way Atlas easily offered her his arm. Father Rogg had not trusted himself with such a trespass. To touch and be touched was a kindness he had forgotten.

"Are you going to come out with us, Father?" Vers asked and Yon opened his mouth.

"Father Rogg is preparing his sermon. He always cloisters himself until it is done," Atlas explained. Yon shut his mouth again. "We will leave you, Father."

Father Rogg could only nod serenely. To correct Atlas that he would love to join them could be misinterpreted. He closed the window again but he found his eyes constantly drawn through the red diamond panes as they continued their meandering stroll.

Yon Rogg turned his eyes towards his bible again and found the tenth book open to him. Epistle to the Ephesians. His eyes refocused on the words that had been dull to him a moment ago. His mind turned from temptation to idolatry and the purity of love he should feel towards his fellow Christians.

Was it fair to envy Atlas? Was it kindness to wish his absence felt by Vers? Were these actions befitting his station? He closed his bible with a snap. He moved to his room in the rectory and opened his wardrobe. His vestments were there waiting for him. He dressed meticulously and walked to the cathedral.

He would take the confessions of others and absorb their penance as his own. When he entered the church he walked to the confessional and knocked on the door. Bron opened the door, his massive body folded into the small space.

"Father?" He was unable to keep the note of surprise from his voice.

"Allow me to relieve you."

"You do not have to, Father, I know as your sermon grows near-"

Father Rogg raised two fingers to silence Bron's concern, "it is fine. I will draw inspiration from the needs of our congregation."

Bron gave a small smile and stepped awkwardly from the booth that squeezed him. Father Yon took his place closing the small door behind him.

The tightness of breath came almost as soon as the door closed. He did not know when the confessional had captured his imagination as a coffin but once he had the thought he could not shake it. Around him dark stained wood and worn red velvet curved up and around. He often felt when left alone too long that he had died and no one had told him. That these moments were the only real ones and his soul was living some extended Hell trapped beneath the earth.

Light broke through the screen beneath the curtain and someone entered. He could smell talcum powder and lilies. A woman, he thought as he settled back and closed his eyes. He wondered momentarily if Bron knew each confessor through the small intimacy of smell and posture. If despite the anonymity promised by the church his brother had grown a deeper understanding of the most devote. Father Rogg pulled back the curtain. The woman was obscured by the screen.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession," the woman whispered. Father Yon stayed silent. He waited for her to list her sins. "I accuse myself of the sin of Envy. My sister has given birth to her first child and I feel no love for it, Father. I wish it were my own. I am sorry for my sin."

Yon listened to her and thought of the feeling of being separated from joy. He remembered the boat that had returned him to England. He remembered the women lined on the shore and the old men. He remembered his father embracing him and the absence of his mother. He had been silent too long.

"Father? My sin is great I wish to be absolved," the woman whispered nervously.

"Envy is not easy to overcome, my child. You will be confronted with it many times."

"I will come to confession as often as I need, Father."

"Absolve yourself through an act of Contrition. Be the guide in this child's life. Teach them the laws of our church so you may be reminded always of the way of the Lord."

"Yes, Father."

The woman accepted the heavy burden placed upon her by Father Rogg. He said the words of absolution as she prayed.

Her sin was followed by others. A slow trickle that distracted him from his encasement. He heard over and over the same sins. Greed, Envy, Impure Thoughts. And yet he recognized no voices. He had no placement of these sins on each parishoner's journey. Were they overcoming their weaknesses or did they sin again and again knowing the would be absolved? As the walls kept close he began to resent their repetition.

One man had stolen inheritance meant for his brother. Had justified it by saying he had no faith that his brother could care for such a valuable legacy. Another woman confessed to impure thoughts towards a young man in her care. Yon had closed his eyes as he had spoken to them. Was he different? He had hoped to find relief in absolving others but his own failings hissed at him through the divide in the confessional.

The door opened again. There was silence. He exhaled slowly as he slid the curtain back. He smelled the garden air. He opened his eyes and leaned forward. The shape on the other side was hazy.

"Father?" She asked as he was silent. "Father are you there?"

"I am, my child," he croaked out as the voice pierced him.

"I have had this place explained to me," she said hesitatingly. The light shifted as she leaned closer to the screen than necessary. Her hand rested weightlessly against it.

"Without memory, what can you have to confess?" Yon asked. He looked at the pale outline of her fingers.

"I confess I do not understand, Father. Is ignorance a sin? Not knowing if what you think or feel is wrong?"

Yon turned to her and held up his hand. He aligned their palms without touching the screen. His hand dwarfed hers. He felt too big to be in so small a space with her. He wanted too eagerly for her to confess to him.

"Willful ignorance is a sin," he agreed, "but you have been full of questions. Our Saviour welcomes examination. It is only by asking the question that we can benefit from the answer."

"I have felt your distress," she said softly. "Is it hard for you?"

Father Rogg swallowed. The desire to speak the truth overwhelmed him.

"I fear I do not know my congregation. I fear I do not want to know them," he admitted. He could not see her but she did not shy away from him.

"Or do you fear they will not want to know you?" She asked softly.

"I am an instrument of the Lord," he answered her. He smiled looking down at his hand he had nearly pressed to hers. "You must understand that feeling."

"This is where you belong," she said. "You should not fear belonging."

He did not know how to answer her. He had never examined his place in St. Agatha's. He performed his duties to the letter and asked no sympathy or attention from those he served.

"Is that your message?" He asked. He was teasing her. It was a relief to have her attention even if it was obscured by his duties.

"Perhaps my sin is I do not want to remember my message? Is that a sin?" Her shadow moved in the booth. She rested her head against the screen and he wished he could reach through it to push her hair behind her ears.

"It would depend why."

"Everyone is so kind here," he could hear her smile.

"There is kindness everywhere, my child. You cannot shirk your duties for your comfort."

"I will try harder then," he saw her shadow nod with determination. "I will remember for you, Father."

She stood to leave the confessional.

"Send Bron here, I must return to my sermon," he said quickly before she could leave.

"Yes, Father," she murmured.

Yon Rogg breathed deeply as he heard the door close. He prayed Bron would hurry and no one else would come as he waited.


	5. Chapter 5

In a burst of brotherly affection, Father Rogg had decided to take his supper in the kitchen instead of at his desk. For awhile there was silence interrupted only by the clinking of spoons. Atlas cleared their dishes as the meal finished. Bron reached out and rested a heavy hand on Father Rogg's shoulder.

"Did you find the inspiration you were looking for, Father?"

Father Rogg's words did not come as he looked into Bron's kind eyes. He wanted to assure the man that acting as confessor had galvanized some sacred lesson in him but it hadn't. He had no epiphany in his coffin.

"Have you decided on a theme?" Atlas asked eagerly from the sideboard.

"Mercy," Father Rogg's tongue stumbled upon the word rather uselessly as six eyes turned to him, "for idolaters."

"Mercy for those who wilfully break God's first commandment to us?" Korath stated clearly. He often had things say to dismissing Bron's soft sermons or Atlas' desire to open the church's arms wider but Father Rogg's apathy rarely drew his disdain.

"It is an interesting topic, Father," Atlas piped up. "I look forward to hearing your complete concept."

"It will certainly be a sermon like no other," Bron agreed but there was an uncertainty in his look. Father Rogg bowed his head and excused himself.

The truth was he had not planned that far ahead. He had spent the remainder of his day staring blankly at his books trying to shift the comfort Vers had given him. Its source troubled him. She was a beautiful girl in need of his help. She should not be comforting him. As he walked back to his study he moved his hand to his side. It had not ached all morning. Vers had burned the pain out of him with hot hands and reassuring words. A false comfort that tricked his mind.

His study was lowly lit when he returned. He locked the door and lay on the small settee. His feet hung off the end, planting on the floor. It was uncomfortable and wedged his head at an awkward angle but he didn't care. He wanted to focus or barring that, resolve into dew and not give the sermon tomorrow. He had no right to advise on the eternal soul. He had long suspected this but it was becoming abundantly clear his higher calling had abandoned him. He wondered if it was left leaning like a jammed and rusted rifle in a foxhole somewhere on the western front.

Or maybe what had carried him to the war-torn continent had not been a mission from God but something pettier that he had dressed in vestments. Perhaps the truth that he could never admit was seminary school had terrified him. That taking orders had not been a comfort and that he had hoped to find something in the glory of war that was missing from the small Cathedral of his village.

He must have slipped into sleep because the room became warmer and brighter. He sat up and wished to shed his sweater but his hands had no agency. He looked around to find the room changed.

His books were coated in gold. They shone in the light as he had imagined the temples in ancient Egypt glowed. Not slabs but holy tomes. A massive fire burned in his hearth, now grown wider and greater. The small white bricks replaced with large limestone blocks. Before it stood Vers, draped in white, belted with gold. The way the fabric hung almost resembled wings tucked close to her back.

"You're awake," she said softly. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. He walked towards her. He felt the currents in the room waft around him as he drifted towards her. She reached for him with one hand, her skin glinted gold. He knelt before her looking up at the way the light played across her features.

"No," he whispered. "I am dreaming."

"How do you know?" She asked. Her hand moved against his cheek. He leaned into her coolness as he felt too warm.

"This can't be real."

"And if it was?"

"Then it is the work of the devil," he shook his head, leaning his body away from her. "He means for me to worship you. I will not."

"What if that is part of my message? What if I won't remember it until you submit to me?" Her voice once again had the otherworldly quality.

"Then you will stay with us for my natural life. I won't submit to you," Yon's voice was tight. The firelight rendered her gown translucent. Her body was part of the message.

He moved his tongue in his mouth, aware of a thirst he did not have the power to quench.

She reached for him again. He could not resist her touch, "supplication is the first humility we learn in service of the Almighty. Do you think you can resist if they have called for you?"

"I have heard the calling of the Lord. It did not come to me as you do."

"You are grown now," she smiled at him. "The Almighty does not approach a child as they approach a man."

"The Lord would not make you so beautiful," Yon licked his lips again.

"Aren't angels beautiful?" She smiled down at him.

"Angels are glorious. They are divine. None of these manifest as physical beauty," Yon let his head fall back and his eyes traced the ceiling, vaulted like the cathedral. In a dream, he supposed you could not blink. Her hands moved over him and he was powerless to stop their heady trails. He wanted to be touched so badly. His face, his hands, his back. All the places small caresses once landed before he became a ghost starched into false piety. "If you were an Angel I would fear you too much to desire you."

"So, you do desire me?"

"You were crafted to tempt me. I will not deny praise where it is due."

"Then you praise the devil?" She trailed her hand across his shoulders as she began to circle him.

"I praise your creator for knowing how I am weak. Do you admit now that it is the Devil?"

She stood behind him and moved her hands over his back, as if tracing wings. Her hands moved around his throat, forcing his head to stay where it was. She filled his vision, her thumbs pressing into his jaw. She curled down around him so his forehead was pressed high in her soft belly and she kissed his chin. Then his mouth. She felt like water in the desert. She opened herself to his parched tongue. She was so cool to the touch, to the taste. She was like a golden idol. He was bent backward into her, her hands tight to his throat, his chin tipped so she could take his mouth completely and he was helpless to her.

When she released him her arms came around his chest and she knelt so her knees bracketed his. He straightened and looked into the fire. It burned endlessly with no fuel to feed it. A sacred unending flame. One of her hands stayed in the centre of his chest, pressing where his soul rested. The other slid over his belly, he felt it press into the wool that swaddled and itched him. He thought of penance, of the hairshirt, was this his own mortification of the flesh? She dipped below his waistband. He wished to stop her but he could not control himself in this dream. He looked into the fire and thought of the eternal damnation that awaited him. She sighed into his shoulder as she traced the outline of him. His flesh answered her coaxing.

"Do you think staring into the fire will circumvent the desires of your flesh?" She asked him.

"The Devil is a river and I am a dam. Where I am weak he may flow through but he will pool until his current is lost where I am strong. He will not overflow my mind."

She laughed at him. Like the sound of wind in leaves. She lifted her hand from his chest and covered his eyes. Then there was darkness even in his dream.

"Tell me your sins so I may absolve you," she murmured in his ear. Her hand beneath his underclothes moved in an unceasing rhythm. He was reminded of the sign of the cross. The repetition that brought no solace. Her touch felt only like the absense of cold. Space where sensation could grow if the seed was planted. 

"Tell me your name," he answered her.

"I have had many," she murmured. He felt her cool forehead press beneath the jutting of his skull where his neck curved. He felt her lips at the top of his spine. Her words danced along it. "I have been the guide of souls, I have walked among forests, I have appeared when a battle has been lost. All who see me, name me. It matters that they call to me with their hearts not the shape of their tongues."

"The letters on your side-"

"Mean nothing to the human mind. Do not try and comprehend what is beyond you."

Yon let the tide of bliss flow over him. The dark created by her hand soothed him and her repeated touches began to build a wave inside him.

"You appear like this?" His voice was rough with longing. She laughed and kissed beneath his ear. Her movements grew more insistent and Yon's gut tightened.

"No. I have never had a physical body before."

"And you do now?" He asked licking his lips and bracing his thighs so as not to buck into her hand.

"I begged for it," she gripped him harder, her hand pushing against his eyes and the thrusting of her hips bending his spine. He was held in a divinely painful arch, every muscle tensed. "I have seen what is coming and I begged to be allowed to comfort you."

"Why?" Yon's voice cracked as pleasure built at the aching base of his spine.

"I called you and you followed. All you found was heartache." Her voice was so pure even as her thumb found the heavy ridge of him and persuaded more pleasure from his nerves.

"Why do you know this now but not when I am awake?" His breath stuttered as he edged closer to completion.

"Why do you only know the truth when you dream?" She countered. "The incoporeal is not made flesh without sacrifice. My body was made at the cost of my purpose. When I regain one I shall lose the other."

"What shall I do?" Yon's body began to shiver and heave, pulling tighter the bowstring of his spine.

"Be Merciful and Worship me," she said softly and like loosing an arrow from its notch she released him and allowed his pleasure to flow.

He awoke in his darkened study, his body was slick with sweat and he groaned at the heaviness between his thighs. He could not break sacred law and relieve the pressure.

He stood on shaking legs and saw his books unchanged. His candles had burned out and the study was lit by the moon through the blood and clear coloured glass that made diamonds in his window. If he leaned just right against it he could see some slivers of the clerestory. He walked to the window and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. He could tell by the mantle clock that it was three in the morning.

A figure in white was walking around the garden. He furrowed his brow and tried to blink away sleep. The apparition stayed. Father Rogg lit the stub of a candle and opened the window. He rested the light on the sill. It called to her and she turned.

She walked quickly barefoot through the beds and came to his window. She smiled up at him.

"You should be sleeping," he whispered to her. She crinkled his nose at him.

"When I close my eyes I see impossible things," she answered. She stretched up and rested her chin on the stone sill. "It is easier to be awake."

"You will get sick," he chastised her. "Then Korath will sit at your bedside."

"I would rather have you at my bedside," she answered without guile. He swallowed guilt flooding him for his impure thoughts. "I have missed you today."

"I am sorry."

"Atlas explained how important you are," she said fiddling with her sleeves.

"He was being kind. I am behind in my work."

"Can I help?" She asked her eyes lighting up. She stood even higher on her tiptoes as if to peak into his study. He smiled at her.

"I am preparing my sermon," his eyes flitted to his many books. "It would be boring for you."

"Will I be allowed to watch you?" She asked eagerly. Father Rogg paused. It had not occured to him she might see him speak. He could not lie.

"You can," he said hesitating. "It may be boring."

"I like hearing you speak," she said bouncing slightly on her toes. He laughed.

"Why?" No one liked hearing him.

"I don't know," she smiled almost starting to laugh. "Will you be up much later working?"

"Yes," he sighed looking at the blank pages on his desk, thinking of all the work that remained.

"May I sit with you?"

Her question surprised him and he looked back at her. He licked his lips. He should say no. He should resist the memory of his dreams. Instead he found himself moving the candle to his desk and reaching a hand out to her.

He pulled and she scrambled up. She made it to the sill facing the wrong way. He scooped her up in his arms bridal style and she made a small shocked sound. He smiled at her as she clung to his neck. Her hands were cool from being outside. He knelt and placed her on the couch. He threw a blanket over her so she would be warm. She curled up and smiled at him. He retreated to his desk. Then moved to the shelves. She made him restless. He kept pulling books from his shelf and relighting the dwindling fire so they would be warm. Her eyes followed him back and forth like a cat. The movements of her head growing heavier.

They stayed silent and she drifted off to sleep. Father Rogg let himself look at her then. He found to his surprise, his pen could write and his thoughts began to flow.


	6. Chapter 6

Father Rogg woke to the feeling of a foot brushing his thigh. He was in his chair his head tilted back. His neck ached. He had not slept so uncomfortably in decades and yet he was struck by the relief of waking. It was early still, the light through the window the static blue of dawn.

Vers was sitting on his desk, watching him. His hand came up and he ground away sleep with the heel of his hand. He realized her feet were in his lap. He looked down at them. His thumb traced the arch, the fine metatarsals and over the thin skin of her ankle. Statues of angels always had beautiful feet. Toes gracefully pointing. Never touching the ground. In contrast, Vers seemed to always be kicking off her shoes and getting her feet dirty. Her toes curled into the thick muscle of his thigh as he touched her.

"I don't mind being ticklish," she said softly. He looked up at her.

Her eyes had softened he realized. No longer piercingly pale. They were a lavender brown colour. Like new rabbits in the spring. She reached for his chin and brushed the back of her knuckles over the bristles. He lifted his chin pressing back into her fingers. No one ever saw him before he shaved. She looked at him fascinated. He slid his palms up the back of her calves. Pulling himself closer, sliding her feet higher on his thigh.

"Most people don't enjoy it." His thumbs found the back of her knees through her trousers. Her thumb brushed over his lips while he spoke. She smiled at the sensation.

"Do you think all of me is ticklish?" She asked brushing her thumb back again, testing the feeling.

"I understand most people experience it everywhere," he took her hand and brought the taut skin of her wrist to his jaw. He moved his head gently so he brushed her skin. Her knees clenched momentarily and she smiled brighter.

"I think I like it," she said uncertainly. He pushed her baggy sweater to her elbow and move his jaw over her forearm. "It's a wonderful feeling. Why don't people like it?"

"It makes them feel helpless," Yon shrugged. He released her arm but she stayed stretched towards him. Her fingers brushed the shell of his ear. She made him feel helpless.

"I don't think I can tickle myself," she said sitting back and running her fingers over her ears. She tucked her slightly wild blonde hair behind her ears as she did it. It fell forward again as her fingertips dipped past the shell of her ear, trailing down her neck. She was mesmerizing in her exploration. He thought of his dream, of her golden and powerful saying she had never had a body before.

"Part of it is the surprise of being touched," he agreed. It felt surreal waking up to this sort of conversation. In a way it reminded him of being woken in the trenches by a scared soldier asking him after his soul. A soldier his own age or older looking at him desperate for a comforting answer. Except this was pleasurable. A beautiful and tender woman. He was as ill suited to explain her body to her as he was to explain the soul to a delirious private.

"Did you finish your work last night?" She asked. That was when he remembered she was on his desk.

"Not quite. Are you sitting on it?" He should be annoyed but he wanted to laugh. To his surprise she shifted forward so her knees bracketed his thigh. He wrapped his arm around her so she did not fall. He found himself looking up at her, his chin pressed into the bottom of her sternum.

"Did I ruin it?" She asked her hands balanced on his shoulders. He leaned around her and looked at the desk. The papers were a little rumpled and creased but undamaged.

"I am more worried that you got ink on you," he replied. It was the truth. His words still felt empty but he would hate for them to stain her clothes. He liked the novelty of seeing her dressed like a boy.

"Did I?" She asked twisting in his arms.

"You're safe," he tightened his grip on her side and slid her sweater upwards to look at the worsted checked wool of her trousers.

"I think I am ticklish everywhere," she laughed in surprise and gripped his shoulders tighter.

"That is usually the way of it," he agreed resting his forehead in the curve of her waist. He did not know when he had become so familiar that he felt he could touch her. Something in her feeling his wound. Being the first to acknowledge its existence since the field hospitals. To assure him that even though the flesh never grew back he was still whole. Her hands moved to his hair, brushing it back from his forehead.

"And you are not ticklish?" She repeated. Her hands moved to the back of his neck, stroking there before finding their way beneath the collar of his shirt. Her fingers spread over the muscles in his shoulders. He held her harder. "Do you feel nothing when I touch you?"

He laughed, his lips brushing the thick knit of her sweater. "I feel something, that is certain."

"And is it a wonderful sensation?"

He leaned back so he could look up at her. She was so eager, so beautiful, so new. He should be helping her, he should be correcting whatever delusion made her so innocent she touched him and asked him to describe the feeling. Instead, he believed her newness, her desire to understand, he gave in to the mystery of her creation.

"Yes," he answered her. He closed his eyes as she brushed her thumbs over his eyelashes. "Your touch is wonderous."

"As is yours," she assured him softly. He shouldn't be touching her at all. "Will you tell me what you wrote last night?"

"Nothing of matter," he sighed. He guided her hips backward so she stood in front of him. The spell had to break eventually. Someone would come looking for him once the sun was fully up. They could not find them together.

"Atlas says you teach your people to be better," she turned to look at the papers on the desk. He stood on stiff legs to stop her examining too closely his inadequacies.

"I talk at them until we agree it is okay for me to stop," he said gathering the crumpled sheets.

"Do you tell them what you want them to know? What they need to hear?"

"No," he smiled but it was cold, she cocked her head to look at him. "I am not as considerate as Bron nor as passionate as Korath. I am a disappointment."

She turned so she was perched against the desk again. He realized how close they were. That despite his best intentions he had stayed in her orbit. Her hand pressed into his side, where beneath layers of clothes his old scar was. He froze.

"You are not a disappointment," she said. Her voice was soft but fierce. She grit her teeth into the words.

"I am," he insisted. His voice cracked around a sob he never allowed free. "I disappointed my father by taking Holy Orders. I left him with no sons to keep the land. I disappoint my congregation by bringing them no solace as times around us grow dark again. And I disappoint the Lord by desiring you."

Her fingers dug harder into his side until he bent around her. He rested his hands on the desk and let his head weigh on her shoulder. He breathed hard to stop the flow of anger that wanted to submerge him. He had nothing. He had traded his family for God then had lost Him somewhere along the way. He was a fool. Doubly so for finding solace in a sick woman.

"I am failing you," he muttered into her hair. He did not know if he spoke to her or God. They felt the same in that moment.

"Do you have no more to give or is it that this hollow piece of flesh has made you scared to give more?" She asked. Her voice like a cathedral bell.

"I lived when better men died. The Lord saved me and I still cannot serve him."

"You have been done a disservice, Father," she murmured embracing him. "Someone has put scales in your heart. All are loved the same. All life is equal."

"We know those who transgress go to Hell and there are punished eternally," he could not allow himself to return her embrace so she hung like fruit from his shoulders as he gripped the desk.

"And who has returned to assure you this is true? Where did you go that stripped flesh from your bones? What news have you brought back?"

"Only nightmares," he answered. His heart ached it thudded so hard. "I have slept soundly since you have come."

"I only told you what you needed to hear," she leaned up and kissed his cheek. He stepped away to release her of his burden.

"You should go," he said. His words too harsh and her face fell. He exhaled and tried to find a smile. He took her shoulders in his hands and squeezed her. "I mean only that we will both miss breakfast."

She nodded and kissed his cheek again. She slipped to the window and landed on her feet outside. He kept watch of her until she disappeared into the Cathedral doors. He turned back to his notes. Her words swimming around his head.

* * *

Wednesday night Mass was different than Sunday. It was brought into soft focus by the lighting of candles and the smaller number huddled together. They made do with less altar boys and a smaller choir. As Father Rogg entered behind Bron he could not help but look around for Vers. She was to the side, her golden hair veiled in black. Minerva had a death grip on her wrist. He tried to hide his smile at the exasperation on the Nun's face. It made a funny contrast to the wide-eyed enthusiasm of Vers.

The service continued like a dream. He felt different, his stomach fluttered with nerves, the censer felt heavy in his hands as he moved it. The smoke billowed from it and he could smell the perfume clearly. It had not been easy when he first returned to watch the golden pot on chains hiss smoke across the congregation. He had to grit his teeth to stop the urge to knock it away. The answer had been to become numb to it even when it became his own hand holding the chain.

The voices of the choir as he listened to them poured like the rushing of rapids. They stirred something in him even though their voices were thin and reedy. The choir for Wednesday Mass had no youths with their vigorous lungs. He had laid many members to rest over the years and watched mothers become grandmothers. Ascending to the Wednesday Choir as less was asked of them at home. For the first time he was moved by their dedication.

When they stood before the altar to pray he glanced at Vers. Minerva had been forced to release her so she could steeple her fingers in front of her chest. Minerva's eyes kept darting to Vers and he bit his cheek at her frustration.

He shouldn't be looking anywhere but the altar and yet he cared she was engaged. He cared that she saw the way the candles warmed the plaster and gave life to the wood. He wanted the incense to catch in her hair and clothes so she carried it with her for what remained of the day. She was in her rosebud dress again. Possible cajoling from Minerva. He worried she would be cold.

He turned as Bron finished the prayer and the tall man knelt before him. Father Rogg extended his hand and Bron kissed it as was common. Yon felt it as he rarely allowed himself to. He lifted his hand and before Bron could stand made a small cross above his forehead. Unnecessary. Extra. And Bron observed it with wide blue eyes. He nodded his head a small smile on his lips. When he stood he towered over Yon but he hovered for a moment before turning to hand the prayer book to Atlas.

Father Rogg had rarely appreciated how fluid they moved together. The way the ceremony of Mass knit together their purpose.

He felt Bron and Atlas' eyes on him as he ascended to the pulpit. He felt also the nervous shifting of Korath. He had no anger towards his uneasy brother. He had not earned his trust in their long acquaintance. That he sat in silence before Yon said words he disagreed with was more support than Yon deserved.

Father Rogg cleared his throat as the sounds of the congregation settling washed over him like a rustling static wave.

"The first great commandment of the Lord was 'Thou shalt love God' and no other gods before him," Father Rogg began. Heads stayed bowed. This was rote and familiar, it was his next words that frightened him. "The Lord has forbidden us from worshipping graven images, of transmuting the intangible to gold and stone. Of placing our faith and our protection into the inanimate. This is what we call idolatry. And Idolaters are understood to be covetous. And sinful. I have been thinking on this sin. It is harder to know when we have committed idolatry. It is not like Envy, Lust or Gluttony where the committing of the sin feeds within us a shameful beast. A beast we cannot purge but only shrink through our love of the Lord. It is when we feed it without repentance the beast grows large and strong. And then it is our souls that live inside it. We become helplessly sewn into its flanks with no hope of escape. We lose our belief that we can be saved as we have become ugly in our eyes. What we forget is that we cannot see ourselves as the Lord sees us. What I have come to teach today, to offer you in hopes you will consider your sin and the sin of others, is that mercy for the idolater must begin with us."

There was a murmur through the small congregation. Father Rogg could not look up. He kept his eyes on the smudged and crumpled paper in front of him.

"Idolatry is a sin created by fear. It is fed by uncertainty and cast in gold by unkindness. In the trenches on the Western Front, men at night were bitten by fleas and rats. They would wake in the morning with frozen bleeding limbs and ask me what they had done to earn a plague upon their bodies. I had no answer for them, as rats were God's creatures and so were fleas. It seemed to us beneath the sopping Earth that they had his favour as he would feed us to them. As days wore on and we continued to hide in our tunnels some men began to wish for rats. To worship them. To see their gnawing as God's love. To hope the fevers and diseases carried in the water around our boots would kill the plague and make saviours of their bitten bodies. To find blessing in rats instead of God is idolatry.

Others became worshippers of their weapons. This was idolatry. There were those that died in the charge that gripped to their bodies their instruments of war. That died while I huddled beneath the battlements waiting for the shells to stop. Only then could I perform my service of commending them to Heaven, but they died idolaters."

The crowd shifted uncomfortably. Others leaned forward. Mothers, he thought, whose sons died in the way he described.

"I would believe that God forgave them. That they entered Heaven with rat bites and fingers covered in gun powder. There they were washed clean of their idolatry. I would encourage those who see idolaters to ask not why they turn their eyes from God. But following the second great commandment Love thy neighbour and ask what it is they fear that they cling to idols that are not our Saviour? And through our mercy loosen their grip so they may be led back to his flock."

Father Rogg hesistated before glancing at Vers. Minerva had returned her grip to her shoulder and seemed to be holding her quivering body in place. He had more to say. He had scripture to recite and a prayer to close but as these hovered on his tongue he took in the gazes of a congregation that seemed to be seeing him for the first time.

He cleared his throat and continued.

* * *

Supper was always late on Wednesdays. They ate after Mass in a mostly darkened kitchen. Something hearty kept warm on the stove while they performed Mass. Bron lay a heavy hand on Yon's shoulder.

"You spoke well today, Father. It is a shame more were not there to hear it."

"You could say it again Sunday," Atlas teased as he loaded the tray to take to Vers. Father Rogg smiled and stood. He placed his bowl beside Vers' and took the tray from Atlas.

"That won't be necessary," he said softly. "I am sure those who needed to hear it, did."

He carried the tray to the dimly lit Cathedral. Vers was there standing in front of the altar.

"Did you enjoy the Mass?" He asked with a teasing smile. Vers turned to look at him.

"You found something you wanted to say," she smiled back. "How do you feel?"

"Lighter," he answered. He held up the tray and she pointed to her little room. He ducked as he walked inside. He put the tray on the small table. She followed him in and the space between them closed. She picked up the slice of bread and tore off a small piece.

"Is this what you gave the others?" She asked popping the crust into her mouth.

"Not quite, that is a representation of our Saviour's body. We transubstantiate it to be his flesh. This bread is just bread. I have not made it into our Lord."

Vers sat on her bed. She was barefoot again.

"Could you though? If you wanted?"

"Yes," he licked his lips swallowing a laugh. "But I would prefer you ate it to feed your body not your soul."

"Did you come to eat with me?" She asked eying the second bowl.

"If you do not mind the company."

"I have missed you all day," she said.

Father Rogg did not know what to say to her. He had no appetite. He felt a little like he had dropped a massive stone he had not known he was carrying.

"Have you missed me?" Her eyes were wide and needy.

"I should not miss people," he answered her, he tucked his hands in his pockets so he would not reach for her.

"But did you miss me?"

"Yes."

She stood suddenly and flung her arms around his neck. He froze beneath her. The force of her body made the dishes clink.

"The others know I am here," he said gruffly.

"I don't care," she murmured back. She turned her head and kissed his cheek. There was longing in the gesture. He allowed himself to wrap her in his arms.

"I have done nothing to deserve you," he said softly.

"Then earn me," she said kissing beside his mouth. Her breath was warm against his lips.

He should tell her it was a sin. He should say it was breaking his holy order but he didn't. Instead, he reached for the bottom of her skirt and lifted it up her thighs. His hands skimmed over the dips in muscles. She was so strong beneath her soft skin. Her hands moved to the three pearl buttons below her collar. As she unfastened them he slowly pulled the blue ribbon loose. He pushed aside the fabric and kissed the skin above her slip. He stood and backed them up towards the bed. She held his shoulders and tipped her head back. His knees were used to kneeling but they still cracked as he bent in front of her.

"I am taking advantage of you," he said against her soft belly. His arms wrapped around her hips holding her bare legs against him.

"If you like we can trade places," she said such filthy things so innocently. He groaned as he shoved her dress up. She caught the hem and pulled it over her head. She had on an ivory coloured slip. It clung to her and he thought it might be the last clinging piece of his sanity. She reached for the hem but he stopped her hands.

"Lie on the bed first," he said in a growling voice. She looked confused. "On your stomach."

She obeyed and turned her head, pillowed on her arms to look at him. He shuffled on his knees the two strides until he was kneeling at her bedside. With careful hands he slid the slip up so it bunched at her waist. He could only see her long legs and powerful haunches from the side. He ran a reverent hand up her thighs from the back of her knee. Her small foot kicked up and she sucked in air. She blushed and buried her face in her pillow. He dipped his fingers between her thighs and ran them back and forth where the skin pressed together. Vers caught the pillowcase between her teeth and shifted her hips into the mattress.

"Can you explain that sensation?" She asked with a throaty laugh.

"No," Yon shook his head. "Only that you must be quiet."

She pressed her lips together and put her forehead against her folded arms again. Yon continued to touch her. His fingers found the small dips above her backside and the notches at the base of her spine. He had never touched a woman before. He knew nothing of their pleasure. He understood though, where all the heat gathered in the body. He knew how she had touched him in his dream.

When he dared, he parted her thighs with the push of two fingers. She lifted her hips for him as he stroked her. With his other hand he pushed the slip higher to just below her breasts. He saw on her side the marks Minerva had described. Not inked letters as he imagined but scars. He bent forward and kissed each one. Vers made a small broken sound. He came up on his knees and wrapped his hand over her mouth. He kissed her shoulders, running his tongue along the tensing ridge of bone and muscle. His fingers entered her, hesitating and unsure. She was wet and hot. She clenched around him and he felt muffled sounds against his palm. He felt safe. He could only feel her, he pressed his forehead to the dip of her back. He said a prayer as he fucked his fingers in and out of her. He felt dizzy with desire. He could feel each trembling twitch of her muscles. She lifted her hips higher, pressing her skin into his cheek. She turned her head and licked his thumb. His fingers clenched in her and she hissed. She desperately sucked each finger into her mouth one by one, as she moved her hips in rhythm with his thrusting fingers. He ran his tongue across the dimples low on her back before pressing a hot kiss to her spine. She came around him. Her hips lifted and ridgidly ground into his hand. Her mouth pressed open to his palm, groaning. He collapsed beside her as she looked down at him. He understood why people gave into this sin now.

He moved up the bed and kissed her mouth. She was twisted awkwardly over her shoulder. He missed the heat of her already. She rolled over and her fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt. He tried to pull away but she kissed him more insistently. He answered her bending closer. She pushed away his shirt and moved to his trousers. He pulled away again.

"I can't," he insisted. This was the last moment before he lost everything. She paid him no mind shoving his clothes down his legs. He kicked awkwardly at his shoes until he was free of them. She settled him against the headboard. He didn't dare look down at his own nakedness. She reached beneath the pillow and produced a black stocking.

"Sister says these are necessary for modesty," she said with mock seriousness. He did not understand as she moved to straddle him. She tied the stocking over his eyes. The world became nothing but sensation.

"I feel this is not what she meant," he half laughed leaning his head forward. He bit into her shoulder.

"Do you feel better?" She asked and he smiled.

"For some reason I feel completely guiltless. I am obviously your captive."

She laughed and kissed him. Then she tilted her hips and began sinking down onto to him. Yon let his head fall back and gripped uselessly at her. She moved so slow. She was so hot and vibrant. She felt like life taking him inside. The world obscured by dark silk. She began to rock and stars exploded behind his eyes. He moved with her as best he could. A naive disjointed rhythm. He took her flesh into his mouth so he would not make a sound. When he spilled into her she stilled and wrapped her arms tight around his shoulders. He shook and bucked up, pushing his transgression deeper into her.

They sat tangled around one another for a long moment. He felt their skin might melt together. He could feel their hearts beating as one. He slid down the bed still holding her.

He could feel her stocking cutting into him but he did not care. He felt his blindess absolved him. She kissed his eyes through it and he felt he could sleep for one thousand years.

"I have remembered my message," she whispered as he drifted off. He tightened his arms around her waist.

"Is it that you are temptation and I am a fool?" He asked kissing the places he could find in the dark. Even his voice felt heavy. His body lax and sated. She swatted at him.

"No."

"What is it then?" He yawned. He felt her lips brush his ear.

"Look forward and be brave," she whispered as he fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Flanders fields the poppies blow  
Between the crosses, row on row,  
That mark our place; and in the sky  
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
> 
> Scarce heard amid the guns below.  
We are the Dead. Short days ago  
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,  
Loved and were loved, and now we lie....  
John McCrae

When he was a child Yon Rogg met God. He was called, the villagers agreed, and it was a shame he could not stay. God had been golden light coming through the pale trunked trees that grew along his family's land. He had chased it because it had seemed to want to be chased. It had wanted to play with him. He had felt, as he pursued it, that the light was happy someone could see it.

God, Yon Rogg decided, just wanted to be seen. And that foolishness had propelled him into the seminary and then the army. There he lost God. It had been a cruel trick. To be without arms in war. Not even conviction. When he returned his mother was gone and no one sang in the mornings anymore. His brief stay on the farm by the woods had not brought back the light.

So he had left for a placement in St. Agatha's and there he remained. 

No one spoke of Vers. No one questioned her disappearance nor why Father Rogg had spent the night in the Cathedral. He woke with a hunger and lightness of spirit he had not felt since his youth. Though they were cold he ate two bowls of soup and in his feverish hunger never questioned why there were two. When he emerged barefoot from the small room he stood in front of the dais and watched the sun glint in through the rose window. He felt as he drew breath that his chest could expand for the first time.

He felt a grief so deep it lightened his body. He felt buoyant with loss and he could not explain why.

He began to feel the edges of it as the days passed. As he wrote his Sunday sermon the room felt empty of something. He wondered at first, if Bron had borrowed a book and Father Rogg could sense the gaps. Or when he looked out the window he expected to see something that was not there.

When the service came his eyes would glance to the side pews and he did not know why.

The uncertainty continued. Father Rogg felt he was pursuing something again. Something that wanted to be remembered but not seen. After the Christmas service, he walked between the pews; righting hymn books and collecting small scraps of coloured paper that only seemed to come at Christmas. Discarded on a bench was a light blue silk ribbon. Father Rogg picked it up and wonder why he felt a pull of something. He carried the ribbon with him and used it to mark his pages. He thought whoever lost it might seek it again.

In spring, he sketched rosebuds down the margins of his pages and he did not know why.

Alone in the confession booth he would line his hand up against the screen, as he waited for another parishioner.

The other Brothers were happy with the change in him. His congregation felt it, but Father Rogg could not explain it.

Except that darkness was growing in the world and it made him crave the light. That headlines began to speculate what he hoped would never return.

He had not hesitated when the time came. If it had happened a year before he might have found much to keep him at home. 

War had come again to Europe.

Again he was living the soldier's life, but war had changed. They were out of the trenches. Now planes flew and tanks crushed everything in their path. Death rose up from the water on giant ships instead of small parasites.

Other things stayed the same. The smell of artillery shells in the morning. How young they all looked in their uniforms. He was still woken by shaking hands and asked questions that were not easily answered.

That day they were approaching by sea. The water rocked them as they neared the beach. It washed black up and over the sides. His boots were wet and the water seeped beneath his slicker. It felt the same as standing in the mire of the trenches once again.

"Do you think we will be alright, Father?" A boy asked, gripping his rifle. Father Rogg reached across and touched the boy's hand.

"Every morning I feel the Lord is with us," he shouted over the engine and the waves. 

He glanced to the beach, the dark line growing thicker as the cliffs gained definition.

A woman stood there. Father Rogg froze. The morning was grey and dark but she appeared like the only beam of sun. He could tell even from a distance she was blonde, with wings that spread in great arcs from her shoulders. His gut clenched and the tide of conviction rose in him faster than the black waves could lap the boat.

He remembered words that sounded like cathedral bells.

"Look forward and be brave."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...what if a dawn of a doom of a dream  
bites this universe in two,  
peels forever out of his grave  
and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?  
Blow soon to never and never to twice  
(blow life to isn't:blow death to was)  
—all nothing's only our hugest home;  
the most who die, the more we live  
E.E. Cummings  
what if a much of a which of a wind


End file.
